Hi, I'm Kurt. A binge-drinking, pill-popping disco diva with a heart of platinum and an appetite for self-destruction.
Welcome to Sleepless Solitude: The True-Life Journals of a Xanax'd Millennial (Part 2 of 2).
Adapted from a collection of nightly...
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August 22
I suppose it makes sense to begin this entry after the longest period of sleep I had.
Apart from being tapped on the shoulder by a flight attendant and groggily reaching for a piece of chocolate banana bread this morning, the most sleep I had last night was an hour and half between 6 a.m. and 7:30 a.m. I don't remember taking off from Newark, but was woken up by the bumpy landing at Toronto City Airport.
Given the fact that I was working at The Clubhouse today, I had a small window of time to get my bearings and figure out a plan of attack while we taxied to the terminal. Once the seatbelt sign had been turned off, I was out of my seat and off the plane like a bat out of hell. Or, more fittingly, like Kurt when he drinks and runs away from his friends. Or perhaps like Kurt when he runs away from commitment. Or from a cash register when he's supposed to pay for something. Whichever it was, I was moving fast.
I grabbed my luggage, ran through the tunnel, pole vaulted onto the shuttle bus, caught the subway, and sprinted to my apartment. After rummaging through my suitcase, I slapped some deodorant on my body – which I was convinced had now started rotting from the inside out – then grabbed my cross-body pouch and returned to the subway.
I managed to get myself to The Clubhouse for 9:03 a.m. I swear to God, it wasn't even 9:07 a.m. before Stella cornered me in the hallway. Apparently, I had made an error with one of the weekend event bookings, which was scheduled over a month ago. A "0" had accidentally been added to a party size of 15, causing The Clubhouse to over-staff the event. Why Stella thought she could fit 150 people in a meeting room the size of my shoebox apartment was beyond me. Fortunately for Stella, I was hardly functioning at this point. I was not in the right frame of mind to perform my usual role of Elle Woods, debating everything I was accused of.
Stella wasn't finished with me. The bitch's second complaint was yet another comment on my phone mannerisms. Evidently, I had been snitched on for not answering the front desk phone with Stella's 17-minute greeting when a staff member's name appeared on the caller ID. That fucker was Hugo, the club's food and beverage manager. As I am writing this, I'm getting angrier and angrier. I'll be speaking to Hugo about this tomorrow.
Pissed off to hell and completely exhausted, I returned to the front desk. I sulked in my chair for most of the day, on the verge of tears and texting Mom that I'd had absolutely enough of this hellhole and wanted to quit. I also called Mom on and off throughout the day, whenever I had more than five minutes of silence.
As part of my front desk duties, I am responsible for ordering the daily meals for each department's manager. When I took Stella's lunch order later in the day, I received yet another reprimand for the booking error. Now, I'd had enough.
"Why are there no checks in place to bring attention to the fact that there were 150 guests booked inside a 10-foot by 10-foot room?" I asked.
